


Smoke and Ribbons

by OfBoxesOfKittens



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bodyguard Otabek Altin, Bondage, Collars, Dom/sub, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Gunplay, Knifeplay, Long-Haired Yuri Plisetsky, M/M, Mafia AU, Minor Violence, Rough Sex, Russian Mafia, Slow Burn, Swearing, Wax Play, White Collar Crime, Yuri Plisetsky is a Brat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 01:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11280771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfBoxesOfKittens/pseuds/OfBoxesOfKittens
Summary: After completely and utterly failing at his last job, Otabek is assigned to protect the grandson of a Russian Mafia boss. And he swears to God he won't fuck it up this time.





	Smoke and Ribbons

The letter is warm in his hand. New, fresh and warm. The words have just been written, quickly delivered.

It’s been sitting in his pocket; the man in front of him is a damn furnace. Jean’s skin radiates warmth, and it is immediately soothing. In comparison to the insipid, stone-grey walls around them, he is the sun.

Damn it all, it’s only been a few months, and he is starting to fill with emotion.

Jean is already inside, and he can only stand at the door for a moment before Jean pulls him into his embrace. He squeezes back, hard, and it all just melts away into the cool concrete below him.

“It’s been too long,” says JJ, eyes damp. His breath smells like mint, and a large Canadian smile graces his face. “I told you we should have met up for dinner months ago!”

“Yes,” he sighs, gently squeezing his arms before allowing them to drop. “And your wife wouldn’t have been suspicious of me at all.”

“She trusts me, and I am a faithful man!” Jean slides down to his chair. The room is mostly empty, except for a large lamp, and the table and chairs that sit around it. “I told her about you. She doesn’t have a problem with it.”

“I’d be suspicious.”

“That’s just you though, Otabek.” He laces his hands together, toying with his ring for a second. “You can trust people!”

“I’m good, thanks.” He eases himself down, and the metal bites into his hand. It’s cold, too cold. Jean chuckles, and Otabek can’t help the way his lip curves up at his response.

They don’t have a lot of time. So they might as well get on with it. Jean hands him the letter, warmed with body heat. He holds it for a moment, taking in it’s presence. The way that it occupies space, thin and white between his palms.

“Are you sure?” asked the man, taking a turn for sincerity. He leans into the brightness, white washed lamp light. It turns his tanned skin pale, and it is a peculiar look on him. That damn undercut… black and smooth hair hangs a bit over his eyes, but it is neat.

“I’ve worked for people like this before,” he murmurs, smoothing the corners out with his thumb. “A couple times.”

“Oh no, just another job,” he says in a lightly mocking tone. “It’s only the Russian Bratva!” The chair creaks below him, it’s hollow metal frame squeaking and protesting under the weight. The tight curtain chokes out the light, and it doesn’t exactly bode well. Do they really need to meet in such locations to discuss these things? A hotel would be more than sufficient.

Otabek holds in his chuckle. He’s not going to give Jean any satisfaction for that one. “It’s only a year?”

“Just a year. They don’t want you to get too comfortable.”

“Hmm,” he said, fiddling.

“You can still pull out, but I don’t know when I’ll be able to get you another one like this.” Jean smiles, just a bit. The edges of his eyes crinkle. “You should take it.”

Otabek considers, under the lamplight, just for a moment. To gather his thoughts, to garner a feeling.

Jean twists his wedding ring, spinning it on his finger. “It’s dangerous.”

“It’s always dangerous.”

“This one could be more than you can handle.”

“Fine,” and this time he grinds his teeth, grinning. “I’ll take it.”

Jean grins right back, pure Canadian joy. He rips open the letter, ready to read. “I only told them good things. Not that you’re not good, you’re amazing-“

“Was that a complement?”

“-but what you did last time was…” He coughs, and slides his wedding ring back on his finger. “A little fucked.”

Otabek reads, scanning the words. He wanted to get out of here. Far too dark and grim, so he read quickly, flickering past the thick black Russian writing. When he is done, he signs his own name near the bottom, and hands it back over.

Jean stands, sliding the note into his pocket. “I’ll take this back. I’ll text you the details of the pick up later.” There is something there, in his eyes. It’s boarding on excitement. “It’s better than sitting in your room getting high all day.”

He gives Jean his driest look. “It’s just a job. Stop being a dick.”

“Well, don’t fuck it up this time!” JJ laughs, and it bubbles up inside of him, overflowing. Filling the concrete space. The lamp shudders, disturbed by his laugh.

_ I understand that this is unconventional, but you have an excellent reputation. If we can work together, I believe we can both benefit. _

_ My grandson requires a bodyguard, a personal one. You will be involved in his affairs, and at times, these matters can be very sensitive. Information will not be shared, but if you are to learn anything, you must keep it to yourself. Anything else will result in your immediate disposal, the severity of which will be determined solely by me.  _

_ As I have said before, this is unconventional. There are additional requirements. My grandson has been known to be abrasive, and I would also like you to protect others from him as well. Certainly, you are capable of this. _

_ Other details will be discussed upon your arrival. _

 

  * __Nikolai__



 

 

*

 

The drive was long, but he kept his eyes open through all of it, memorising the landscape. Watching the St Peterburg streets turn from concrete to cool icy hills.

After five and a half hours in the air, he could finally stretch his legs. All the way from Almaty to St Peterburg, he landed in Pulkovo airport, just in time for the rising sun. A car was ready for him, and he tried to keep his eyes from lidding as the sky turned from apricot to blue.

The car smelled like smoke. An American brand, imported. It was a warm scent, seeping into the leather of seats. Otabek closed his eyes, trying to identify it specifically. “Hey,” he said, and the driver raised her eyebrow. “What brand is it?”

“You can’t guess?” She asked, lip quirking over the mirror. He breathed, inhaling the scent, filling his lungs to the brim. Oaky tones, a bitter edge. 

“American? It’s not local.” Otabek mumbled, crossing his arms. “Winston. Right?” Maybe the leather had confused him.  _ Winston tastes good like a cigarette should _ . 

“I’m surprised you didn’t get it immediately,” She turned the wheel, turning another corner. Her eyes were shiny blue, and a strand of red hair hung over her cheek. “You don’t smoke?”

“Not often,”

“It’s a popular brand,” her eyebrow rose higher, and she then smirked. “Do you want one?”

“No, thank you.” His driver shrugged, focusing back on the road. It had turned steadily worse, the rumbling beneath them increasing with each added mile.

“Do you mind?” Reaching down to her pocket, she pulled out a pack of Winston Golds, shaking a cigarette out.

“Smoke away,” He said, and she lit, pulled back, letting out a lungful of toxin. The foreign scent was refreshed, each exhale sinking the smell deeper into the padding. She didn’t bother opening the window, it was too cold for that. It burned his throat, and he winced.

Not exactly his preferred brand. But soon, the heady smoke pleasantly began to buzz, and he didn’t mind it so much. She huffed, a satisfied look filled in the lines, softening her. When her hands weren’t occupied with the steering wheel, she was at her cigarette, casually resting it between middle and ring finger.

He watched her smoke, the white roll simmering down. Her lips left a pink stain on the paper. Occasionally, she would lean forward, squinting to see through the foggy windscreen.

“We’ll be there soon.” She tapped the bud out the window, quickly rolling the screen back up with the handle.

Good, he thought, rubbing his hands together. It was getting cold, and he was already regretting not bring a warmer jacket.

“I changed my mind,” he said, shivering. “Are you still offering?”

She wordlessly passed him the Winston Golds, and then the lighter. Otabek dipped the end into the bright flame, and breathed. Deep, until the warm smoke coiled right down to his toes. 

Perfect.

 

*

 

The manor rose up like a ship, struck deep in between two hills. Otabek squinted, eyes paining at the sun winking in the reflection of the many mirrors decorating the walls.

He couldn’t have imagined living in a place like this. It was too lavish; he could practically feel the walls pulsing with money. As if they were puffing out their chests, boasting.

They stepped out of the car, the woman pulling the door open for him. She clenched her teeth, smiling at the cold. “Jesus, let’s get inside. We’ll freeze our asses off out here!”

He blinked, bleary, disorientated. Had he fallen asleep? His legs felt numb. His tongue felt like hard tack against the roof of his mouth. That cigarette hadn’t tasted too well. Otabek wasn’t too into brand loyalty, but something about the warm scent had an awful after taste. It had dried out his mouth, and settled strangely on his skin.

She smiled, rubbing her palms together. They walked down to the door, and Otabek watched the building loom above them. Three stories of white brick and white snow, the sun and the cold. He was more than apprehensive about this place.

But Jean was right. He had always planned things out. There was no need to feel paranoid about the place. He hadn’t even met the people yet.

After all, it was only the Russian Bratva. Not a big problem, right?

Maybe they’d even have better cigarettes. They should have. How else would they be able to hold the market if they didn’t?

The driver rubbed her hands together, breathing hot air over her knuckles. She knocked, once, twice, then called: “I’ve got company!” 

The door swung open, a bright swath of silver hair popping from the doorway. His features seemed sharp, rounded out by soft cheeks, with a strong jawline. His nose was slender, curving slightly, and two vivid morning eyes glinted from beneath his fringe.

“Oh, Mila-“ The woman smacked her forehead, glaring at the other man. He continued, as if there were no interruption.

“Dumbass-“

“Whoops,” he said, still grinning. “I forgot about the whole name thing!”

“Bullshit you forgot!” she shook her head, quirking her lip.

“Does it really matter?” He said, shifting his stance. He placed a finger on his lip. “So, you must be Otabek!”

“Yes,” he said, swallowing. The man had very nice eyes, and pleasant features, but that wasn’t an excuse to be distracted. Otabek couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering down to the hand placed delicately on his hip.

Smirking, he leaned forward. “Yakov is going to-“

“Can you stop?” Cried Mila, shoving a hand over his mouth. She rolled her eyes, turning back. “Sorry, my friend is an idiot. I’ll take you upstairs.” Growling, she grabbed at the man’s ear. “I’m serious, stop fucking around!”

He laughed, waving her off. “Alright, alright!”

“Take care of the car.”

“Always,”

“And stop flirting!” She shouted, nearing pushing him out the door. “Sorry,” she muttered, closing the door with a click. “He’s acting weird today. Not that I blame him, you are quite the catch!” Laughing, she nudged him gently with her elbow.

“It’s not a problem. I don’t mind.” The inside was even more lavish, dark floors polished until they were more mirror than wood. Should he remove his shoes? Some of his previous people had made him remove his shoes before stepping onto their pristine floors.

But Mila strut in, wet shoes and all, straight onto the pale grey carpet. “Just ignore him. Come. It’s probably not a good first impression if you’re late.” She said, guiding him to the stairs. Each footstep clicked with marble. His boots were dripping. Mila didn’t mind at all, walking a step behind him.

The vast entrance made him gasp. It was bathed in morning light, glinting gently from the chandelier hanging from above. Large panelled walls, a perfect pearled gleam. Each surface was spotless, oaky. The furniture looked light, trimmed with gold and birch. It felt wrong to step on it. Almost.

“He’ll be waiting for you, just down the hall.” Mila pointed, gesturing down the long corridor. Doors branched off along the sides, but the large door at the end tugged at his attention. Dark, with silver hands, it stood out among all the others.

These Pakhans were always fond of the grandiose.

He knocked, and stood, back straight.

“Come on in,” said the Pakhan, his gravelly voice rolling out from under the door. He opened the door, lifting his eyes.

The Pakhan watched him. He sat comfortably in his plush chair, a grey cap on his head. Otabek swallowed, but held his eye contact. He couldn’t show weakness; the boss would be looking for that in him. He couldn’t give any excused; god knows when he’d get another job like this. Long term protection jobs were better than the others. Better pay, better treatment. Usually better outcomes.

The man regarded him with a gentle gaze, and took out a cigarette box. He stroked his beard, and steadily lit a cigarette.

Donskoy Tabak.

Otabek would have laughed, if it wasn’t for the fear in his stomach. This man probably made millions, but here he stood, decked in a velvet office. That pen on his desk was probably made of gold, but here the Pakhan sat, smoking Donskoy Tabak! At 115 Ruble per pack, it was cheaper than dirt.

“Did you get my letter?” He coughed, sucking in a breath.

“Yes, sir.” Otabek muttered, pulling the letter from his pocket. Damn, his fingers were trembling. That wasn’t a good sign. He hid them behind his back, lacing his hands together tightly.

“Then you know most of what I want,” he crossed his arms, baring forward on his desk. His stature demanded attention, and Otabek watched attentively. Regarding him carefully, he leaned down, pulling in another lungful.

Donskoy Tabak. Full bodied, dirty and nostalgic. Cheap, and thick. Just a moment ago, he had had a cigarette, but now was itching for another. His lungs were going to be lined with tar at this rate. “Yes,” he said, breathing through his nose. Enjoying the sweet scent of tobacco, he felt himself begin to relax. “Sir, I am willing.”

“Great,” he clapped his hands together, pleased. “Because I don’t have a lot of time. My grandson needs a guardian, and he is far too old for a nanny anymore.” The man shook his head, smiling. “He has become a real handful. I…” and he paused for a moment to collect his words. The end of his cigarette flared, glowing. “I wouldn’t normally allow you into my house, or even near my grandson this early. But I am out of options.”

Otabek nodded, not quite understanding, but thought It would be better to respond than to not.

“I’ve heard good things about you,” he said, whispering as though it was a secret. “And I know your history well enough.” Otabek swallowed, nodding again. “So, I am trusting you. You know the rules, you know my expectations for you.”

“Yes sir.”

“And I expect you to follow them. Any harm comes to my grandson, and you will never see the light of day again.” The man was completely serious. Otabek understood that. Family was important, and an outsider couldn’t be trusted.

“Yes sir.”

“I will sent you payment in advance.” The Pakhan leaned back, visibly more relaxed. “Inform me if you need anything updated or refitted.”

“Just another perk of the job, sir.” He said, clenching his fingers tightly to his palm. The man chortled, standing.

“Good, good. Now, my grandson,” he lifted his eyes to the door. “Come on in, Yura!” There was a very pregnant pause.  The Pakhan sighed. “Yurochka, you may come in now!” He called again. Otabek turned, raising an eyebrow.

“Is he…?”

“Damn child,” he muttered, squeezing his cane. “I swear,” The Pakhan strode, bursting open the door. Otabek gapped, then closed his mouth. The man strode quickly down the hallway, ire in his eyes. “I’m getting sick of this,” he grumbled, turning. “Come, you need to meet him. It’s not like he’s going to listen to me, maybe he’ll listen to someone closer to his age. This child, he’s going to kill me. One simple instruction!” He cried, waving his stick in anger. “One instruction and he can barely follow that!”

The Pakhan turned, slamming his fist into the door, hard enough for the hinges to rattle. “Yurochka!”

“What?!” Otabek leapt back at the scream. The Pakhan was near seething.

“I told you to wait outside my office!”

“I was coming!” The boy shouted again.  “You should have told me when you wanted me there!”

The old man clenched on the door handle. “You need to meet him.”

“Meet who?” Said the boy. With that look on the Pakhan’s face, Otabek didn’t doubt that the teen very much knew what his grandfather was talking about.

“Come now, he needs to at the very least know what you look like.”

“Show him a fucking picture, Jesus…”

“Language!” The Pakhan tugged on the door. He groaned. “Yura, please just come out, don’t do this now.”

After a moment, the door rattled, opening.

Otabek told himself, as he stared at the beautiful man in the doorway, that this was a job. The boy leaned, leering. For a split second, you could have mistaken him for a woman, with that gorgeous sway of blond hair. A hand travelled up, fiddling with the choker around his neck, and Otabek tried to ignore the red travelling up his own neck.

That’s enough. This kid, Yuri, probably didn’t know what sort of connotations that sort of thing had. Especially in his head. Those weren’t the thoughts to be having about someone he barely knew.

But his clothing draped, a dark t-shirt with a v-neck, hanging just right. It hung over his collarbone, delicately resting against. He had a slim figure, long limbs and pale skin. His shorts sat low on his waist, revealing a thin silver of skin.

“Yeah?” he said, rolling his eyes, outlined with thick Kohl. What could possibly be that color, that beautiful bright shade of green? The boy was ethereal, his eyes seemed to shine with anger.

Otabek blinked, stepping back. This wasn’t right, he needed to stop this thought train before it send him tumbling. “I’m Otabek.” He said, voice steady. Normal posture. Normal expression. No need for anyone to suspect anything. The boy crossed his arms.

“There,” he said, frowning. “Got a good eyeful? Is that enough for you?”

“Should be sufficient.” He said, blank face. The blond was infuriated, gripping his fingers tight over the door. Maybe saying those words, it was the wrong thing. But with the teen’s attitude, he didn’t exactly feel guilty. The Pakhan didn’t reply, obviously just as sick of the behaviour.

“Fuck you,” he growled, face turning red. “I’ve had enough of you,” 

“Yura-“  The Pakhan was nearly struck across the face by the closing door. He sighed, turning. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with him.” He walked off, grabbing at his cane. “I’ll have Vitya give you instructions tomorrow. Rest up, you look like you’re about to fall over.”

“Who-?”

“Silver hair, cheerful disposition. He’ll tell you who he is, don’t you worry about that,” He nodded. “Now go. Rest. Take that as an order. The third door, left wing.” 

“Yes, sir.” The Pakhan huffed, out of breath.

With that, he finally turned, limping his way back down the corridor.

Now that he thought about it, he did feel tired. It dug at his muscles, but he had been tensing so much so that he barely noticed. The last time he had slept must have been back in Almaty, in his ratty mouldy motel.

He swayed on his feet, stumbling to his room. His exhaustion pulled at him, and he barely looked in his room before tucking himself under the covers.

 

*

I will admit, it is rather unconventional.

You can, of course, skip it all if you want. Skip to the good bits, the sex scenes. The ‘smut’, though I loath to call it that. Yes, you read correctly. And not just any sex scenes. Bondage, wax, nipple clamps, and an awkward if endearing ‘daddy’ kink. Two people expressing their desperation at the world through a power exchange.

But that all comes later. I don’t want to mislead you. This story is a long one, so if you are here for that reason, just wait a little while.

Skip if you want to. Call it smut, even as it is integral to the way this story is told. But make no mistake, this is more than just sex.

It really doesn’t matter.

There a couple things you do need to know.

This story is about:

  * The Russian Mafia
  * BDSM
  * Loneliness
  * Love
  * And crappy parenting. 



 

 

*

 

Otabek was surprised at how quiet it was. The house was large, nothing like the one bedroom apartment Otabek had grown up in, but there was always some sort of noise. The roar of cars from the highway, the neighbours that boarded along all sides, and the hum of electricals buzzing away in the walls. It comforting, the slight noise he heard.

But this was too much. The snow swallowed up the noise, and the house didn’t have many guests either. It was deathly silent.

So when he was there, he liked to pop in an earbud and listen. The radio was crap, but between nine am and three pm he could listen to classical music through waves of static.

The boy didn’t come out much either, allowing for food to be delivered to his room. Otabek went down for breakfast every morning, lunch and dinner. For the rest of his time, he had access to the library, and to the gardens outside.

It was good to have options, even if one of them was a shrivelled up, dead garden. Even the thorns had died off, clinging like cracked hands over the fence. Out of curiosity, he went out there once, and stared for a few minutes before inspecting the rest of the house for security problems.

He definitely wasn’t planning to go back for anything more than a smoke break.

Mila and Victor were nice enough. Mila had clearly scared Victor enough. He didn’t act at all like he had when they had first met. Victor was polite, cheerful, and second in command. Otabek didn’t doubt for a second the brutality he must have had to get to that position. His advances had completely stopped.

“It’s okay,” she said, winking at him in the kitchen. “I scared him off.” Just as he had suspected, she had immediately assumed that his initial affection was a problem.

“I wasn’t bothered by it,” he muttered, gently thanking her for the coffee. If anything, it was flattering. He didn’t mind.

“No, no, it’s fine!” She said, throwing an arm around him. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered!” Mila squeezed him slightly, pulling him closer.

Victor sipped his tea, bemused.

Their company was much appreciated, but he hardly saw much of Yuri. The boy seemed to be avoiding him like the plague. He only saw him late at night, darting between the rooms. Otabek felt his heart sink, then swoop with every glance, but knew nothing would come of it.

He needed this job. There was no point in pursuing anything. It was a shallow attraction.

Besides, the Pakhan would never allow anything to happen to his grandson. Otabek had zero right to expect anything. And it was going to stay that way. Uncomplicated. Simple, with no room for misunderstanding. 

Yuri, on the other hand, had a different plan in mind.

 

*

 

Yuri could feel his heart in his neck. It beat against his throat, heavy and thick in his ears.

Stupid heart. Fucking stupid bodyguard. He couldn’t be up at this hour, could he? Fuck, he needed to calm down.

Otabek was working for him. He was getting paid for this.

Yuri determinedly lifted a hand, and twisted the door handle. “Hey, asshole!” He whispered into the dark room. When there was no reply, he opened to door further, scanning the room with wide eyes. “Hey,” he whispered again, letting more light into the room.

His bodyguard had curled himself up in the blankets into the foetal position. The room smelled of him, a gentle, foreign scent that he couldn’t particularly identify. Yuri glared. Fuck, he was hot. With that jawline for eons, and wide shoulders. It pissed him off. It made him mad, because he shouldn’t be influenced this way.

It wasn’t even the gay thing.

Yuri grit his teeth, and bumped his shoulder. He didn’t have the time to think about things like this. He pushed against the sleeping mound, hissing. “Wake up, I need your help-“

A hand reached quickly, nearing grabbing him by the neck, missing and hitting his arm. Yuri gasped, scrambling back, cussing, and the hand fell back, curling back under the blankets. 

“Yuri?” He whispered, leaning up. His brow furrowed, and he made to touch him arm again, then pulled back. “Yuri, what are you doing here? Is everything okay?” His eyes flickered down to his neck, where the choker usually sat stark against his skin

“Everything is fine, just-“ the words weren’t hard to say. He just needed to stop being stupid. Yuri sat down, and crossed his arms. “I need your help with something.”

“Help?” he asked, sitting himself up, the blanket falling. For a moment, he wished the man had been shirtless, then mentally smacked himself back into place. No Yura. Bad Yura.

“Yes,” muttered Yuri. “Help. From you.”

“Ok,” said the bodyguard, checking his clock quickly. “What is it?” His accent was thick from sleep, a gentle twang behind the words. He didn’t even seem angry that Yuri had disturbed his sleep.

“Get my phone back for me.”

“Your… phone?” he asked, hiding a bemused expression behind his fist.

“Yes asshole!” Yuri growled, glaring. The other’s eyes widened, but that stupid look was still on his face. “My phone. My grandfather has it.”

“I’m… not sure that’s a good idea.” Said Otabek, frowning. “He took it away for a reason, yes? Maybe it’s not such a good idea to annoy the Pakhan.”

“I don’t care.” Yuri leaned forward, and even in the darkness, Yuri could swear he felt the other man shiver. “You’re my bodyguard. You work for me, not the Pakhan. You follow my orders.” Otabek swallowed, pushing back against his shoulders. He looked exasperated, but nodded.

“Fine.” He said, climbing out of bed. “I’ll get the phone back.”

“And don’t you dare get caught.” Said the boy, grinning. His lungs felt cool, clean, and confidence began to fill him again. Otabek slipped his shoes on, and gave him a dry expression. “Seriously, I really need my phone back. And I’m not afraid to fire you. I don’t owe you shit.”

He pulled on a jacket, frowning. “Please, the threats are unnecessary.”

Yuri felt his cheeks heat again. This man didn’t even know him?! What gave him the right?! “Just get my damn phone back,” he bit the inside of his cheek. A pit of shame welled up within him. The bodyguard didn’t respond, only raising an eyebrow.

Yuri waited a bit, dipping a hand into his bed. It was still warm with his heat.

The man had been in his house for days now, and Yuri still knew very little about the man. Why did he feel so emotionless? It was almost insulting. Yuri had avoided him since they had met, and the bodyguard showed nothing towards him at all.

Yuri didn’t need a bodyguard. The whole thing felt like some sort of dumb show of power.

But Yuri waited, instinctually reaching for his pocket for entertainment, hissing when there was none to be found. When his neck felt tired, he lay down, staring up at the ceiling. The coldness started to creep in, and he shivered, but didn’t crawl under the blankets.

Otabek returned only a moment later. Yuri quickly got back up, head spinning. He walked in, carefully shutting the door behind him. He winced, holding out the phone.

“Here,” he said, sliding the phone into his grasp. “Your phone.”

“Where did you find it?” he laughed, opening the screen.

“On his bedside table.” Said the man casually, relaxing back down onto his bed. He closed his eyes, sighing deeply.

Yuri gapped. “Holy shit,” he said, incredulous. “You’re the real deal, aren’t you?”

“I try my best.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, scrutinizing his bodyguard as he eased himself back into bed. “So, you just took it out from under his nose. Just like that?” It seemed doubtful, but the phone was in his hand, warmed by Otabek’s palms.

“Well,” he mumbled, yawning. “I checked his office first, and then his room. It was right beside his bed, and I just… took it.”

“Heh” He chortled, dropping the phone into his pocket. “You crazy fuck. That’s crazy. I swear, he has eyes on the back of his bed, but you went in there just fine, didn’t you…”

“Yep,” said the man, pulling the blanket up to his nose. He wriggled, trying to get war

“Uh,” he said, standing. “So, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” mumbled Otabek, yawning again before turning to his side. “We should probably both get our sleep, before your grandfather starts to suspect something.”

“Yeah,” Yuri bit his lip, grabbing the door handle. “Okay. Goodnight.” He said, wincing.

Otabek opened an eye. “Goodnight, Yuri.”

Yuri closed the door, shaky at his knees. He stumbled back to his room, and sank down beside the door, clutching his phone to his chest.

Obviously, this was stupid. But try to tell his heart that.

His heart didn’t give two shits.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey lovely people!
> 
> If you loved my work, and want more of it, drop a comment down below! It really encourages me, and it allows you to boost this fic higher, so more people can see it!
> 
> Thanks <3


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